


Fatalistic

by JantoJones



Series: Stand-alone  (The 1st 100) [45]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-06-02 02:52:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6547684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JantoJones/pseuds/JantoJones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya knows he is going to die.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fatalistic

Illya Kuryakin knew he was going to die.

He accepted this as fact every time he went on assignment. It was a survival technique he had learned very early on in his life. He had realised that if he assumed he was going to die, then he stopped worrying about his own life, which enabled his to concentrate on the task at hand. This attitude had seen him labelled as reckless on many occasions, but Illya took pride in never risking his life, or that of anyone else, needlessly.

Today, Illya Kuryakin knew he really was going to die, but what made it worse was that he wasn't even on assignment.

Only ninety minutes previously, he'd been sitting in his car on a rare day off, enjoying a Nathan's hotdog. Illya had very much embraced the availability of unnecessary foods, and the ease at which he could get them. Napoleon had once stated that there was nothing unnecessary about a Nathan's hotdog. Illya had simply smiled at the remark. He came from a place where every single morsel of food was absolutely necessary for survival. Now, an hour and a half later, the hot dog was a distant, and painful, memory. Painful because, thanks to a vicious punch to the stomach, he'd vomited it back up.

He had just finished his hotdog, when two men had jumped into his open-topped vehicle. Each held a gun to him, and the man in the passenger seat had ordered him to empty his pockets and hand over his weapon. His communicator was snapped in half, and his gun was pocketed. The other man, addressing him by name, then instructed him to drive, making sure to follow every instruction he was given.

After driving for almost ninety minutes, Illya was told to stop, and get out. As he did, he finally managed to activate the locator beacon under the dash. Hopefully, someone would now be on the way to find him. He had no doubt that whoever came would find his dead body, but at least he wouldn't be left out for the animals. As he looked around him he could see no signs of human life or habitation at all; the ideal place for an execution. Illya just wished he knew who his executors were.

The smaller of his two captors ordered him to his knees, an instruction Illya chose to ignore. This prompted the larger man to deliver a heavy blow to his gut. This had the desired effect and left Illya kneeling in the dirt and throwing up the lunch he hadn't quite had time to digest. Looking up, after his stomach had settled, he found himself staring into the business end of a THRUSH rifle. At least he now knew who was about to kill him, though he did have to wonder why they had chosen this course of action. He was more than aware that he was a highly valued prize for the hierarchy, so shooting him in cold bold seemed like a bit of an anti-climax.

"Close your eyes!" the smaller Thrushie, the one with the rifle, commanded.

Illya shook his head and resolutely kept his eyes open. He had vowed to look death in the face when it arrived.

"Just get on with it," the other man growled.

That was his mistake. It distracted his colleague just enough for Illya to reach up and wrench the rifle from his hands. He swung it around and shot the shorter man squarely in the chest. He died with an expression of absolute surprise on his face. Illya turned his attention to the other man just as he aimed his pistol. All became still for a moment as both men closely watched the trigger finger of the other. A few more seconds went by before they each judged it time to fire. Two triggers were pulled, and two men fell to ground.

*************************************************

Illya awoke to the familiar surroundings of a hospital, though it was clear to him that he was not in medical at U.N.C.L.E. headquarters. He groaned as the pain in his skull let him know he was still living.

"Welcome back."

Turning his head to the side, Illya was greeted by the grinning form of his partner.

"Can't you even have a day off without getting into trouble?" the American asked.

"We all have our talents," the Russian quipped. "Did I get the other guy?"

"They were both dead when we got to you," Solo informed him. "You got them both cleanly in the chest. You were lucky, as the shot which hit you only grazed your head."

"Who were they?" Illya asked, wondering why his good luck was so painful. "All I know is that one of them had a THRUSH rifle."

"Preliminary investigations suggest they used to be quite high within the organisation but, thanks to you, they were demoted a very long way."

Illya was too tired to worry about Thrushies he may have upset. Besides, there were two less now. For now, his only problem was the pounding in his head.

As he drifted back to sleep, Illya Kuryakin smiled, knowing he was not going to die today.


End file.
